Neither For Me Honey Nor The Honey Bee
by kusegoto
Summary: (Мор. Утопия / Pathologic) She will march across town and she will meet the woman she begged to forget. Aglaya Lilich/Yulia Lyuricheva from Pathologic 2. Rsted M for sexual content.


The letter is sent at two, arrives at four, and Aglaya only reads it at eight. She knows reading it is a mistake once she recognizes the print of the envelope, and yet she does. She can only justify rising from her desk in her cathedral by putting it in a bag filled with papers she doesn't even recognize.

The great doors falling shut are all that warn the orderlies that are outside she has left. Neither of the two exchanging post greet her with more than nods and the rustling of bones on their coats. They know their jobs don't involve language that can be parsed. Gestures without reports mean nothing.

The roads wind and weave in such nonsensical, frustrating ways that Aglaya knows immediately who laid the stone and planned its course. It almost makes her consider that the roads were simply planned around the estimation of housing — perhaps large rocks served as placeholders until they set foundation.

Aglaya knows only one woman who could lay stone like this. She also only knows one woman who neglects to dot her I's.

The night is covered in shadow and the veneer of normalcy. The dead in the street are a distraction. Despite claiming this town as her own problem to solve, she's neglected to become acquainted with its deceased, having only taken home in the bridge square's cathedral. But walking its roads towards the lowly lit library on the flank of town.

The familiar taste of a cigarette that isn't hers. Aglaya takes one last deep breath of the outside before she enters the spider's web.

It does Yulia a disservice to suggest she has such an uncomfortable pull over her. She'd rather it not be uncomfortable, neither comfortable, neither anything at all; just something left behind her. Perhaps it'll be walking across a dying town towards someone else's wish that puts her to the block.

Buried far underneath, she missed that smoke's taste. "Aglechka."

Aglaya closes the door, walks inside, and leans herself on the wall, facing herself away from the perched architect. With a sigh, Yulia takes the cigarette from her teeth, and leans into her palm. Then, a little louder, and perhaps more dignified, she says, "Inquisitor."

"Aglaya is fine."

"Is it?"

"Is this your way of saying you didn't want to walk across town?"

"I figured the night air would do you some good." Yulia crosses her legs, as well as her arms. Aglaya can tell she's looking at her from the way her voice echoes off the walls. There's no light over in Yulia's corner of the room. "Perhaps that's irrelevant, though. Coming from me."

"Just enough." She wants a cigarette of her own. "Your choices will always confuse me."

"That would suggest we linger in each other's thoughts long enough to be confused."

"'We'?"

"Whatever keeps it even between us."

Have you been thinking about me? Have you been waiting to talk to me? When I rounded the town up and kept them in a line, had you hoped I'd speak to you last? Had you hoped I forgot? Do you think I've forgotten?

"Your methods of diplomacy are as perplexing as your choices in decor." Aglaya moves her legs; her boot's toe taps on the wood. "Are you a librarian, or an artist?"

"Architect. But perhaps they're the same."

"Why did you write to me?" Aglaya's hands strain on her sleeves, gripping the tight material. "You wrote directions, no purpose, no request—"

"Always prying for answers..." She hears the ache in her voice and the tutting of her tongue. Her chair moves. "Look at me, Aglaya."

Yulia sits in shadow, worn by the week. When Aglaya looks at her, it makes her wonder just how long this plague has existed — she has heavy, red eyes, pale cheeks that hollow against her rolled-up cigarette. She looks like the healers, but perhaps for the wrong reasons. Grief — heavy grief, the kind that feels like the past, the kind she doesn't want to feel anymore. Aglaya looks at her and she hopes she looks defiant, but she feels the way her eyes narrow and her shoulders crumble, and she wonders if she just looks like a bitter girl, grimacing and being recalcitrant.

"How can you expect an explanation if you won't look at me?" Yulia asks, bringing the cigarette away from her mouth. To her pride's credit, she doesn't let her voice crack. "What makes me different than all of your problems you try to solve?"

"You don't need to be solved," Aglaya says, feeling her eyes want to wander. But she doesn't let them. If there's one thing she wants to give up, it's regret. "You're... something else."

"Like you?"

"If I am, what am I?"

"An angel." Yulia throws the paper into her ashtray with contempt. "Just and unjust."

Aglaya looks away, but only so she may see just how thick the dust in the library is. She turns her body towards her. "That's not much of a compliment, is it?"

"However you mean to take it." Yulia rests her forehead on her open palm again, and leans on the bookshelf. "God... I wanted to talk. Then, I just began to curse you. I'm sorry."

Aglaya doesn't respond. Yulia seems to expect that. She curls her fist against her hairline.

Then, Aglaya sighs. "Have you been drinking?"

"No."

"How droll. I would have liked something."

"I'll buy some sparkling wine for us next time."

"Next time? You have a very high opinion of our situation."

"By our, do you mean the town, or each other?" Yulia turns herself more towards Aglaya, so she does not cower herself in the shadow. When Aglaya moves her head, some of the light from the pale white behind her fills the shadowed part of the room, illuminating Yulia. Her coat has seen better days. Aglaya misses when she used to wear long pants in the Capital, running to her class. They suited her more.

"You know that I mean each other," Aglaya says, with a blink and a turn of her head. She cannot help it; it is hard to watch Yulia for long. It feels like a sharp point being dragged over an open wound, raw and shapeless. "This town's answer is what determines my survival. How fitting, that what you helped build will be my riddle to answer."

It is Yulia's turn to look away. Their gaze continues to roam across the room, between corners and walls, and only match when they seek the echo of each other. Why can't she walk closer? Why can't Yulia stand up and come to her?

"I only laid the groundwork," Yulia laments.

"Answers are often written in the stones you lay down," Aglaya responds.

"You seem comfortable with your fate." Yulia looks as if she's searching for another cigarette. Like many things in this town, distractions are limited. "You always take everything so... fairly. Even when it is anything but. How?"

There's nothing to return to. There's only an empty apartment. I know nothing but my work. Who I see daily does not exist. There is only the Law and what I have to uphold. There is only the Law and what I have to destroy. I'm sorry you can't see my way. I'm glad you never had to.

"Limited living," is all Aglaya says.

Yulia seems to have given up on her search for a smoke. She lays her hands down on the bookshelf's ledge and doesn't lift her head.

"Can you come over here?" she asks, the ache of her voice as less smoke, more heart. "Please?"

With deep hesitation, Aglaya takes her first step across the library's floor. She can feel her chest tighten, and her headache start to worsen, and her mind grow louder and louder to go, go, go, back outside, far away — until she stands in Yulia's space, knees to legs, and she wraps her arms around Aglaya. She reaches up across her back, and rests the side of her head against her stomach. The tension in her shoulders disappears.

She looks down at her blond hair. It is unwashed, but still brushed. She's heard the water here makes you either sick or mad. Her sister was likely victim of both. With a great mourning, Aglaya wraps her arms around Yulia's shoulders, bending down just enough to shelter her from both the shadow and the light.

"I miss you," she confesses.

"I think you're being melancholic."

"No. I just know when the time calls for honesty." She can't tell if Yulia's eyes are closed, or if they're open. She can't tell if she is crying or if she is staring at dust. She can't consider anything, and that is her entire purpose's worst enemy, and still she accepts it. It is silent, before Yulia asks, "Do you?"

Aglaya can feel her chest tighten. Comfort and regret seem to settle in the same body. Yulia lifts her head, and Aglaya moves her shelter to look at her. The hands up her back don't move.

"We won't be able to continue where we left off," Aglaya admits.

"Maybe," Yulia says. "For someone who regards everything like a problem... you don't know when to concede to hope."

"I'm going to kiss you," Aglaya says.

"Please, Aglechka. Kiss me, and take me once more."

Kissing Yulia is like kissing warm water. Shaped and rhythmic until it collapses against you. She is not as refined as her work, which meanders and weaves into pathways and structures, but instead moves her hands to clutch and grab. She is quick to grab Aglaya's cheeks, holding her face in the same manner Aglaya does her own. It is desperate, fast, and feels like the time between day and night. Midday and mid afternoon. Fleeting moments when time forgets who you are. Her sister's family made time flow but Yulia is the one who creates it.

Yulia stands from her seat, yet yields, quickly. Aglaya is over her, her desperation shaping the way Aglaya looms over her body. And she is matched by Aglaya's own want; the bookshelf's ledge digs in just below where Aglaya's hands roam down to Yulia's back, in the curve of her spine and where her hips spread.

Stupid coat. Was it for a woman she tried to impress here? It is split open quickly, shrugged off and down on to the miserable stool chair Yulia was cowering on. She keeps her mouth over Aglaya's, those arms wrapped around her narrow shoulders and making a home where they used to lay every weekend. It's been so long. Aglaya shuts her eyes when she can feel a lurching weight guide her forward, ravenous for the way Yulia yields for her.

She breathes. Yulia groans. She feels the guilt of forgetting and forsaking give itself up for how warm Yulia's body is, how even while she unbuttons and unclasps her best, blouse and undershirt, Aglaya cannot stop thinking about how warm she is. How real she is. How her memory is just her memory but a memory is a memory is a—

Yulia makes her grab her breast. She is not wearing a brassiere, and when Aglaya holds her Yulia helps undress Aglaya's own gown. It's like being adorned and cared for. Maybe that's what Yulia wants. Does she dream, too? Is this what her dreams are? Times when university and what-will-come was just a backdrop? Does she hear her lines whispered to her offstage?

"Aglaya," Yulia groans, as she pulls the sleeves of her dress down her body. "Goodness. Look at you..."

"Is this where—? Do you not have a bedroom?" Aglaya asks, breathless.

"No, no. This is fine, this is fine..." She offers her neck. Aglaya presses her mouth against the flank of her skin, feels her shudder under her teeth and mouth, feeling the impossible warmth of Yulia. Maybe she doesn't exist. Maybe she's the angel, a beam of light meant to change something inside her. You probably aren't meant to fuck angels. But Aglaya doesn't think she could prepare herself for the truth of Yulia, and she wants her, and Yulia wants Aglaya, and Aglaya wants...

She wants to take off Yulia's clothing, so she does. Her own gown has fallen, a ring of black around her boots. Her high waisted pants and black brassiere are a dignified cut against her narrow form, but Yulia allows herself to fall open bare. Her undergarments drop with her trousers, and her whole body shudders when Aglaya's gloves fingers drag over the blond tuft of hair crowning her legs.

"Can you keep them on?" Yulia asks, and even she seems caught off guard by her own request.

"So long as I am able to clean them," Aglaya warns, and Yulia is breathless as she laughs, pretty and sharp.

"Of course. Of course. Please."

Her legs part and Aglaya leans them into the bookcase, Yulia's arms bracing her against the wooden ledge. It's little more than a cabinet with shelves for books to slot into, but the ledge allows for Yulia to lean back, with her head falling and mouth opening wide, as Aglaya makes her home between her. Her hands graze her crux; her mouth leaves meaningless bites on her throat; her knee sits between Yulia's own, gently pressing her hand up inside her by the angle.

Yulia says something. Part curse, part noise. Aglaya drags her finger inside, against the wall of her entrance, with a smooth and calculated press. She can feel, even through her gloves, the slick folds of her crux. One of Yulia's hands reach up into Aglaya's hair, and almost unties it.

"Yes, _yes..."_ Yulia's words break to a whimper at the second press, two fingers dragging in, out, in and out at the pace that breaks her in half. "Aglaya, Ag_la_ya, that's it, that's _it..."_

_"Yulia," _Aglaya mutters, the closest thing she's ever prayed to. Yulia offers her own leg for Aglaya to lean against, as she pushes her fingers far inside Yulia with each press and thrust. Her thigh is soft and not at all steady, but dragging her clothed cunt over Yulia's bare leg is a certain kind of crude, depraved need that she is compelled to indulge in, especially when it sends a jolt through her from the crux of her leg.

Yulia's other leg spreads in short, uneven movements, foot planted firmly on the floor as she tries to open her legs, allow her dying flame to fuck her farther, head leaning so far back Aglaya wonders if she could bite a ring around her throat and let it tumble off her shoulders. Something makes her push forward, her entire body pushing up against Yulia. Yulia yelps something sweet and grabs on to her some more, one arm trying to support herself before her legs give. The other hand is wrapped tight around Aglaya's shoulder, drawing her in.

"Aglaya, I'm going to—going—kiss me, please, you have to kiss me, I may scream—" Aglaya pushes her mouth against Yulia's, something uncalculated and entirely honest, as she pushes her fingers in, curl them, press her thumb into the nub of her clit, anything to get that scream down her throat. Yulia tongues her name, grabs her body with both of her arms, and allows her whole being to be pushed into the shelf.

Aglaya presses her hand far, far against Yulia, inside her core, as she drags her own hips on Yulia's thigh, fucking her own wants and needs out into her. Yulia's throes are haphazard and desperate, holding her Aglaya as close as as can stand while she chases her own finish. It's one of the many miracles of the week that Aglaya doesn't collapse, as Yulia most certainly almost does, curling into Aglaya's chest. They both breathe as if they only knew the suffocating spell of water.

With a careful hand, Aglaya removes her glove the same time as removing her fingers. Gingerly, and only a little petrified at how she'll possibly explain being gloveless, she folds it in such a way that no mess will possibly mark the shelf. With her bare hands, she gathers Yulia's face to look at her. Her sweet lips parted, breathless and tired.

"Stay," she pleads, "Even... even after you clean yourself."

"I cannot. Not for long." Aglaya rests her forehead against Yulia's. She's not sure why. "I may not be able to even rest for very long."

"I worry you aren't sleeping," Yulia admits softly, as if there were a whole room between them once more. "You cannot outlast this plague by staying up all night."

"No. But I outlast the dead." Aglaya kisses her forehead. Yulenka, my Yulenka... "I will send for a letter. It may be under the guise of passing it to the healers. Please — hold on to it."

"Inquisitorial methods," Yulia reflects, but where a playful note might be is yet to be found. "I understand. Thank you."

"For?"

"If you have to ask, I won't answer. It will come to you in time."

Aglaya holds her, hiding her face against her bare shoulder. "I can only hope that I will have the chance to learn."


End file.
